


Lost In the Echo

by Holly (spaciousbear)



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Eavesdropping, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaciousbear/pseuds/Holly
Summary: Sing doesn’t have to look to know what the man in the room with Eiji looks like. Blond, waifish, tall - familiar, but always off, always a shade wrong.The alcohol helps, probably, to close the gap, to make it feel less wrong. To forget that his eyes are blue instead of green, masks the wrong tenor in his voice.In the close confines of their apartment, Sing overhears more than he anticipated when Eiji returns home late one night.
Relationships: Okumura Eiji & Sing Soo-Ling, Okumura Eiji/Sing Soo-Ling (one-sided)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85
Collections: Banana Fish Smut Week





	Lost In the Echo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Smut Week Day 4 prompt: Voyeurism. I love these two, but the need for angst was too strong with this prompt.

The sounds of summer permeate the walls of their tiny apartment: cars passing by outside, the rattle of the subway, the low hum of everyone’s cheap air conditioners running on full blast. Sing is used to the sort of hypnotic lullaby it creates when he tries to sleep, but he’s decidedly _not_ sleeping. Instead, he’s stretched out on the bed, a book open and his eyes gazing over the same set of lines over and over again.

It’s too late to be studying, his eyes can barely focus on the page in front of him, but he has to be doing something. Otherwise, he has no good reason for being awake still and he’s just waiting. 

It’s late; much later than Eiji would normally be returning from an event at the gallery. The door to their apartment doesn’t open until almost 2am. Sing can hear it as he’s dozing, almost asleep. He can hear the low, mumbling sound of Eiji’s voice as he passes by. Then he hears the second voice. 

So it’s one of those nights. He should have figured.

There’s one thing about living in New York that never changes. Sing’s noticed it; whether you have the smallest shack out on the edges of Chinatown or an upscale place in the village. They always have one thing in common. 

The walls are paper thin. 

It’s how he knows when it’s been a bad day for Eiji. He can hear it when he cries in the other room, even when he tries to muffle it, limiting himself to sniffles and whimpers. He can hear when he’s angry, cursing out his frustration to the emptiness around him. 

And then there’s this. 

Eiji’s come back, likely from lingering over drinks with someone he met there. Too many drinks, maybe. He recognizes the slur in Eiji’s words, the stray bit of confused Japanese that slips in, and a laugh from the man with him. A fond laugh, this time. Some times, other times, the laughter is derisive, mocking. Those times, Sing wants to intervene, but he never does. Sing forces his anger down, bottles it up like he does all his other feelings, mixing inside of him into an explosive concoction Eiji is the solitary spark to ignite. 

Then there’s a stretch of silence that’s longer, a bit too long, and Sing doesn’t hear their voices again for several lingering minutes. What he hears instead is a quiet rustling of fabric, the low groan of weight pressing down on the bed. 

Sing rolls onto his side, debates if he should just get up and leave the apartment, give Eiji the privacy he deserves. But it’s two in the morning, and there’s nowhere for him to go this late - and trying to leave now might just draw attention to his presence anyway, so instead he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore whatever sound is carrying from the next room. 

And then there’s another creak of the bed, followed by another, forming a rhythm as they carry on, and then there’s a moan in a voice that is unmistakably Eiji. Several reactions seize him simultaneously: a vague embarrassment, a shapeless anxiety, and… something else entirely. The sound travels through his body before settling into him, an uneasy arousal. 

Sing doesn’t have to look to know what the man in the room with Eiji looks like. Blond, waifish, tall - familiar, but always off, always a shade _wrong_. 

The alcohol helps, probably, to close the gap, to make it feel less wrong. To forget that his eyes are blue instead of green, masks the wrong tenor in his voice. 

It makes it easier to pretend. 

Sometimes he wonders what they get out of it, but he doesn’t have to wonder for too long, really. Even on his worst days, Eiji is warm and kind, cute and unwittingly charming in a way that’s only more effective for his seeming lack of self-awareness. 

He understands too well what they're getting from Eiji, what he's willing to offer in his vulnerable state. 

He tries not to, but the heat between his legs is aching and he palms at it softly, desperate for some relief. In the next room, Eiji lets out a faint whimper and Sing feels it deep in his gut. His fingers trace the waistband of his boxers before dipping inside, his cock resting in his slackened grasp as his other hand works to pull the restricting garment down past his hips. 

Gripping loosely with his hand, his hips gently ease up from the mattress, cock hardening further with the contact. He should stop now, he knows that. But his mind is too clouded and his body needs too much, and his hand starts to move steadily along his length before he can convince himself otherwise. 

Low mutterings begin to seep in through the walls, some in Japanese, some in English. He reaches back with his free hand, briefly touches the wall that separates them. For once, Sing wishes that he didn’t understand the things Eiji is trying to say, the things he’s asking for, the words he’s crying out. _Please, I want to forget._

He knows the face that Eiji is imagining through all of it, he can practically hear the name on the edge of his lips. _Ash_. But his words never quite make it that far, even in the depths of his fantasy. Sing imagines that they dissolve along the tip of his tongue, get buried into the mouth of the stranger in his bed, that he swallows them back down; a poison he can never purge. 

Selfishly, Sing can’t help but wonder if ever, even once, his face flashes for the briefest moment through Eiji’s mind. 

As his hand pumps on his cock, it slowly synchronizes itself with the rhythm from the other side of the wall. He bites down on his lip to ensure his silence, to keep himself from vocalizing, and a few breathy, strained grunts are all he can afford to spare. 

Voices begin to merge into a frantic harmony, faster, louder, and Sing commits every note to memory. Because some nights it’s gentle and quiet, but not tonight; tonight his hand moves rapidly to keep pace with the approaching crescendo of moans and sighs. It’s so much that he knows he can’t last much longer and braces himself for the inevitable. 

He presses his fist to his mouth to muffle a cry as his body tenses up and a hot, sticky stream of come splashes against his stomach - just as Eiji’s voice pitches high enough to indicate that he’s coming as well. It’s not even a moan that he stifles, it’s a low, desperate sob of longing that no one else can hear. 

He closes his eyes and strokes himself through the last few pulses of orgasm. Eyes squeezed shut, he focuses briefly on the sound and the tight warmth of his fist around his cock. 

It’s almost enough to be able to pretend. 

As the fantasy fades into static, his residual arousal settles into a deep, nauseating guilt. Sing cleans himself up, pulls his boxers back on, and throws on an extra layer of clothing - a tee shirt and sweats - despite the heat. It's mechanical, detached, and he tries not to hear anything further, as though that matters now. All that he could hear would be the rustling of clothes as they dress themselves again and Eiji quietly shows his guest out of the apartment. 

They never stay. Eiji never lets them. 

Sleep almost starts to wash over him, not quite sated but at least relieved, but there’s an unexpected sound resonating through the otherwise silent apartment. 

This sound is softer, sadder, and seemingly more private than anything else he’d heard tonight. Coming through the crack beneath his door, it carries, almost imperceptible - a sound of weeping in the kitchen. Sing hesitates, pushes himself up onto his elbows and strains to listen. 

He knows he should leave it alone, roll over and go to sleep like he should have done hours ago, before Eiji even returned home. He knows Eiji doesn’t want him to get involved, to apply a comforting salve to that open wound of grief, but the guilty aftershocks of his pleasure overwhelm his sense and he finds himself standing up and approaching the door. He opens it, just a crack. 

The kitchen is dark, but he can make out Eiji’s figure standing against the counter, hunched over, his head resting against his arms. Shoulders shaking, visibly unsteady, and only partially-dressed. 

Sing reaches to turn on the light switch, but reconsiders. Instead, he softly clears his throat before speaking. 

“Eiji?”

There’s no acknowledgment of his presence, but speaking must have snapped Eiji out of something because his eyes become wider, nervous and wet-looking in the low light. Before Sing can even take his first step forward, he can see that Eiji’s body is trembling. 

Eiji sinks to the floor, no longer able to support himself against the counter, and whatever guilt had been settling into Sing’s heart curdles into shame. He rushes over to Eiji’s side, drops down to his knees and lifts Eiji’s chin just enough to examine his face. Eiji’s eyes are clouded over, vacant, and they do not meet Sing’s. 

“Eiji, are you okay? I… I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’m alone.” His voice is a quiet, mumbling hum and Sing can barely make out the words, he isn’t quite sure if they’re directed at him. Still, he places an anchoring hand on Eiji’s shoulder as he responds, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Of course you’re not. You’re just tired right now, I’m going to help you back to your room so you can sleep this off.”

“Don’t leave me.”

There’s a tremor in his voice that’s not quite sorrow; it’s outright terror. 

“I… okay. I won’t. I’m right here. Do you want to lie down?”

Eiji doesn’t respond and Sing takes that for as much of a yes as he’s going to get. 

Still drunk, half-dressed and barely steady, Eiji concedes when Sing offers him a shoulder to pull him back up to his feet, and helps him to the bedroom. Once Eiji’s settled, his body curled onto the mattress, Sing feels around in his drawer, grabs a soft tee shirt and helps slip it over Eiji’s head to allow him some modicum of modesty. 

It’s as much for himself as it is for Eiji. 

The shirt, Sing’s shirt, is far too big on him. It hangs loosely over his body, and appears as though it’s going to swallow him up out of sight like the void of loneliness he’s been drowning in. Eiji turns to his side, facing Sing, and his face is still wet with tears but his eyes are closed and he appears to be resting. Sing relegates himself to the edge of the bed, to give Eiji as much space as he needs. Still, Eiji reaches a shaky hand outward to feel for his presence and Sing squeezes it gently before redirecting it back to Eiji’s side.

“I’m right here. Go to sleep.”

It’s here in his bed that Eiji ends up spending the night, still clinging with the scent of sweat and sex, and Sing does his best to steady his thrumming heart until Eiji falls asleep. He waits. 

Not allowed to love him. 

Not even allowed to touch him. 

But with Eiji right here beside him, close enough to feel his heartbeat, it’s almost enough to be able to pretend. 


End file.
